INFERENTIAL HISTORIC MATERIALS.
A book may come into my hand which contains no narrative of events--no
allusion to the persons or transactions of the author’s times--in a
word, nothing, from the first page to the last, which in a direct
manner should enable me to assign a date to it. Nevertheless, such a
book may actually possess much historic significance, and it may take
its place among those materials of which a writer of history will
eagerly avail himself. This assertion may need some explanation; as
thus:--
Each nation, as distinguished from other nations, its contemporaries,
and each period in the world’s history, as compared with periods
anterior to it and subsequent, has its characteristics, its moral
tone, its intellectual range, and its tastes; it has its principles,
its modes of reasoning, and especially its condition as a season,
either of progress and expansion, or of decay and decline. Now these
characteristics are important in themselves, and they are often highly
so, in clearing up historic problems.
Nevertheless historians seldom afford _direct_ information illustrative
either of the moral or the intellectual condition of ancient nations;
nor indeed is this deficiency much to be regretted, for such subjects
are too indefinite to be treated in the style proper to history; and
when historians philosophise, they bring the simplicity of their
testimony into just suspicion. Besides, the mental condition of a
people can be fairly estimated only by being placed in comparison with
that of others; and few writers, how extensive soever may be their
acquaintance with facts, are qualified to arbitrate between their
contemporaries, and their predecessors, or between their own countrymen
and their neighbours.
Yet although information of this sort may not present itself on the
pages of historians, it may be derivable from other sources; for when
the literary monuments of an ancient people are in existence, the
knowledge we are in search of may be collected with a high degree
of certainty therefrom. Yet the process may be nice and difficult,
inasmuch as the indications from which it is to be gathered are more
or less recondite. For this very reason the conclusions we obtain by
a course of inferences and comparisons, may be the more exempt from
suspicion. The pages of historians may be swelled with descriptions of
the resources, the foreign influence, the population, and the polity of
empires; meantime an intelligent inquirer may obtain--from the casual
hints and allusions of writers of a less pretentious class, a true
knowledge of the taste and the morals of a people.
It is obvious that we are not to attach much value, in this sense,
to the embittered sarcasms of misanthropes, or to the epigrams of
satirists, who hold up to view the two corrupted extremes of a social
system--namely, the pampered favourites, and the desperate outcasts of
fortune. Nor should we listen, without caution, either to the dreams of
poets, from whose pictures the ills of reality have been discharged,
or to the averments of philosophers, who are often less true to nature
than even the poets.
Inferences, in an inquiry of this kind, may be drawn from what is
recorded of--the modes of life, and the domestic usages, and the
amusements of a people; or from the characteristics of their worship;
or from the popular feeling, whether of approbation, surprise, or
abhorrence, that is excited by the actions of public persons.
Valid information also is to be gathered from the enactments of a
people whose moral condition is under inquiry. This sort of material is
either that which is fixed, and has been consigned to the executive, by
legislative authority; or that which floats at large in those ethical
writings which have taken a permanent place in the literature of the
country. In deriving inferences from the first--namely, the sanctioned
laws of a people, several distinctions must be observed; for we must
not bring forward antiquated laws; and in examining recent enactments,
the political circumstances of the time must not be forgotten, for
the momentary interests of parties, or of individuals, not seldom
produce legislative decisions that are altogether anomalous, as to the
condition of the people. Often mere chance has had sway in senates, and
may have exercised more influence in the grave business of law-making
than the sage and solemn forms of the place would seem to bespeak.
But it must be with the last-named source of information only that we
shall now have to do. What we say is this--That, with due caution,
substantial information relative to the moral and intellectual
condition of a people, may be collected from the ethical writings that
have been accepted and approved among them. This proposition carries
several important consequences, and it may be well to illustrate it by
some examples.
Every hortatory composition contains, explicitly or by implication, two
fixed points, which it is the business of the inquirer to ascertain.
One of these is much more readily found than the other; yet there
exists a means of measuring the distance between the two; so that the
one being determined, the other also may be discovered:--for example,
The first point ascertainable in an ethical composition is--the system
of morals, or the standard of excellence which the author has imagined,
and which he recommends and enforces. This point may be termed _the
ideal level of the writer’s mind_ in morals, and it is in most cases
quite easy to be fixed. The second, and less obvious point, and that
which is the very object of our inquiries, is--the actual state of
morals among those whom the writer addresses, and which may be called
_the real level of popular morals_. Our business then is to find this
last or unknown point, by measuring the distance between the two. Now
this distance is more or less distinctly indicated by the tone of
every ethical composition. We have then in our problem three terms:
one known, one demanded, and a middle term, connecting the two, which
remains to be worked out of the materials before us.
The distinctness of the indications from which our middle, or
_measuring term_, is to be formed, will vary greatly in different
cases. In works of a philosophical cast they will be extremely faint,
and perhaps not available for our purpose; while in treatises that
are of a simple and popular character, and which consist of precise
exhortations--reproofs and advices--there will be little difficulty in
drawing the inferences we are in search of. It will be found, also,
that serious writers are more safe guides than those that indulge in
satire; for the satirist seeks for extremes.
We say that writings of a philosophic or moral cast, and in which there
occurs no allusion to events or to individual persons, may nevertheless
be made available as the materials of history.--Two or three instances
will show what we mean. We take our first example from a book which
is as abstract in its form and style as any that could be found; and
give, in brief, the purport of a section on Magnanimity, in Aristotle’s
Ethics.
Magnanimity, says Aristotle, is a quality conversant with what is
great. But what things are these? He then may properly be termed
magnanimous who deems himself worthy of great things, and who is so,
in truth. For he who thus deems of himself without cause is a fool. He
whose merits are equal only to a humble station, and who thus thinks
of himself, is called wise, not magnanimous; for magnanimity belongs to
what is actually great. In like manner, as handsomeness belongs only to
height of stature; those who are small, may be comely, or symmetrical,
but not handsome. On the other hand, one who falsely deems himself to
possess great merit, is called vain--a term which can never properly
belong to those who are truly great. Again; one who under-rates his
merits is mean-spirited, whether his real deserts be great, moderate,
or slender; since he still thinks that less than he possesses is his
due: especially is he pusillanimous who thus disparages great qualities
in himself; for what would such a man do if destitute of that merit?
He, therefore, who is truly magnanimous, is of necessity a good man;
and whatever there is great in any virtue belongs to him. It befits
not him to flee, wringing his hands, nor to do wrong to any one; for
why should he commit unworthy actions to whom nothing great can be
added?--Wherefore this greatness of soul seems to be a sort of ornament
to all the virtues--enhancing all of them, and not, by any means,
consisting without them. True greatness of soul is therefore rare,
since it demands the perfection of probity and goodness. Magnanimity is
peculiarly displayed both in honour and in disgrace; for the great man,
when surrounded by opulence and by assiduous attendants, experiences
only a moderate happiness; since what he enjoys is not more than what
befits him; or perhaps, not so much; for virtue can hardly ever be said
to possess its due reward. The honours bestowed upon him he therefore
calmly admits as being, though not equal to his merits, the utmost
that those around him have to bestow; while ordinary or mean praises
he utterly contemns; for of such he deems himself undeserving. In like
manner he despises disgrace; for he knows that it is unjustly cast upon
him. Thus, in prosperity he is not elated; in adversity not dejected.
Without attempting to draw inferences too far from a passage like this,
it may fairly be said to indicate the existence of popular notions of
moral greatness, more refined than those of nations merely warlike;
and far exalted above those of a people--merely commercial. The
writer must, in his own country, have seen examples of heroic virtue
which approached the perfect image he exhibits. One is not surprised
to learn that he belonged to the race which produced Aristides,
Cimon, Epaminondas, and Phocion. It is observable that Aristotle’s
magnanimous man is decked only with the honours that befit a _citizen_,
or a distinguished leader in a republic--not with the gaudy shows of
oriental despotism: it is not deemed a becoming part of his hero’s
glory that millions of his species should lay in the dust at his feet.
We may also fairly remark, that this acute thinker had evidently no
idea of that peculiar sentiment which is engendered, in great minds,
by an habitual reference to the moral attributes of the Deity: his
hero is a purely _mundane_ person; or, if we might so accommodate the
term--he is _atheistical_. Neither did his notion of moral greatness
include that humility which springs from a sense of delinquency, or
imperfection, in the sight of the Supreme Lawgiver and Judge. If
ideas of this class had at all been known to the Greeks of that age,
or if they had come within the writer’s view, he would assuredly have
included them among his definitions, whether he thought them worthy of
commendation, or not so. For his manner is to omit no abstract idea
that bears any relation to his topic.
To what extent sentiments like those mentioned by Aristotle were
prevalent in his times, it is not easy to ascertain from the passage
just quoted; since the treatise in which it appears is of an abstract,
not of a hortatory character; yet it contains one expression which,
on the principle of our present argument, we should call _a term of
measurement_; he says, that true magnanimity is exceedingly rare, or
hard to be attained; in other words, that it was much easier to find,
among the writer’s countrymen, an Alcibiades than an Epaminondas. But
the historical significance of a passage like this will best appear by
bringing it into comparison with a quotation, on a similar topic, from
the most eminent of the Roman moralists.
Cicero’s Treatise, De Officiis, is abstract rather than hortatory; and
yet, compared with the Ethics of Aristotle, it is less metaphysical,
and it approaches nearer to the modern idea of a practical work.
Without designedly painting the manners, or formally estimating the
morals of his times, this great writer furnishes, in his various
compositions, many indications from which the state of both may be
inferred. Of all social bonds, none, he says, can be found more weighty
or more dear, than that which binds each one of us to our country.
Dear are our parents, dear our children, relatives, friends; but in our
country are centred the endearments of all--for which, what good man
would hesitate to die, if his death might promote its interests? Whence
the more detestable is the ferocity of those who, by every crime,
rend their country; and who have ever been busied in accomplishing
its ruin. Actions performed magnanimously and courageously we are
wont to applaud, as it were, with a fuller mouth. Hence the themes
of orators on Marathon, Salamis, Platæa, Thermopylæ, Leuctra; hence
our Cocles, hence the Decii, hence Cnæus and Publius Scipio, hence
Marcellus, and others without number; for the Roman people especially
excels in greatness of soul. Indeed, our love of military glory is
declared by the fact, that our statues are adorned with the garb of the
warrior. But that elevation of soul which displays itself in dangers
and labours, if it wants probity--if it contends not for public, but
private advantages, becomes a vice. Not merely is it not a virtue, but
is rather to be deemed a ferocity--repulsive to human nature. Well
therefore is fortitude defined by the Stoics, when they say, it is
‘virtue defending right.’ Wherefore no man who has attained the praise
of fortitude has been renowned for treachery or mischief; for nothing
can be laudable which is unjust. Those, therefore, are to be esteemed
valiant and magnanimous, not who commit, but who repress wrongs. That
true and wise greatness of soul, which is indeed laudable and consonant
to nature, regards deeds more than fame; and would rather be, than
seem illustrious. And he is not to be reckoned among great men who is
dependent upon the erring opinion of the thoughtless multitude. For
lofty spirits, always thirsting for glory, are easily driven on to what
is unjust. And it is indeed hard to find one who, while he undergoes
labours and dangers, does not seek glory as the wages of his exploits.
In these expressions there is conspicuous that paramount passion--the
love of country, which belonged so peculiarly to the Roman
people--which was a principal cause of the growth of their power,
and which, though then on the wane, was not extinct in the age when
the state ceased to be free:--no good man would hesitate to die for
his country’s good--this was a sentiment more characteristic of the
Romans than of the Greeks. The Grecian chiefs not seldom betrayed
their country for gold; those of Rome, scarcely ever. Then the
military spirit is much more prominent in the one instance than in the
other. Cicero’s great man is, of course, a warrior; Aristotle’s is a
statesman: the Roman obtains _glory_; the Greek, _honour_, _dignity_.
The one, if destitute of probity, becomes the factious destroyer of
his country, and is regardless of dangers and toils: the other--merely
vain. The Greeks addicted themselves to war to defend their liberties,
and to determine their intestine quarrels; but the Romans did so from
the innate love of combat, and the insatiable desire of conquest. Both
moralists make true virtue essential to true magnanimity; but the Greek
proves this necessary connexion on abstract principles; the Roman
insists that _utility_ must be made the ultimate rule of conduct;
and this principle is expressive of that practical feeling in which
the Romans so much excelled the Greeks. If then, by some error, the
passages above quoted were attributed--each to the other writer, a
reader well acquainted with the history of the two people, would not
fail to detect the incongruity of the sentiments and the phraseology.
The two authors hold essentially the same opinions; but the one thinks
like the companion of sophists, the other like the friend of soldiers.
This perceptible difference between the two is an index to the
_historical significance_ of both.
We shall now cite a passage on a subject not very dissimilar, from a
modern writer; and the reader will perceive that a great change and
improvement has taken place in the sentiments of mankind, between the
times of the ancient writers and the modern.
The duty (of respecting the natural equality of men) says Puffendorf,
is violated by pride or arrogance, which leads a man, without cause,
or without sufficient cause, to prefer himself to others, and to
contemn them as not on a level with himself. We say _without cause_;
for when a man rightfully demands that which gives him pre-eminence
over others, he may properly exercise and maintain that advantage--yet
avoiding absurd ostentation or contempt of others. As, on the other
hand, any one properly renders honour or preference to whom it is due.
But a true generosity or greatness of soul is always accompanied by
a certain seemly humility, which springs from the reflection we make
upon the infirmity of our nature, and the faults which heretofore we
may have committed, or which yet we may commit, and are not less than
those of other men.... It is a still greater offence for a man to make
known his contempt for others by external signs, as by actions, words,
gestures, a laugh, or any other contumelious behaviour. This offence is
to be deemed so much the greater, inasmuch as it so excites the minds
of others to wrath and the desire of revenge. Thus it is that many may
be found who would rather put their life in immediate peril, and much
rather break amity with their neighbours, than sustain an unrevenged
affront. Since, by this means, honour and reputation are injured, the
unblemished integrity of which is essential to peace of mind.
The latter sentences of this passage preclude the idea that the writer
lived in times when a sordid, or servile insensibility to reputation
had extinguished those sentiments to which so much importance, and so
much merit, was attributed by ancient warlike nations. At the same
time, the first part of it contains a corrective sentiment, of which
scarcely a trace is to be found in any of the Greek or Roman writers--a
sentiment plainly arising from an enhancement of the notion of _moral
responsibility_, and from a far higher estimate of the nature of
virtue. In other words, the two first quoted writers were polytheists;
the last was a Christian.
Our next instance is taken from the Enchiridion of Epictetus. The icy
sophism of the Stoics had found some admirers at Rome before the times
when the ancient republican severity of manners had disappeared. But
_theoretical_ stoicism does not reach its perfection till some time
after _practical_ stoicism has become obsolete. It is a reaction in the
_moral_ world, produced by the rank exuberance of luxury, sensuality,
effeminacy, and the arrogance of preposterous wealth. If, therefore,
the date of the Enchiridion were unknown, it would be more safely
attributed to the times of Domitian, than to the age of Cincinnatus,
or of Cato. In reading the following passage one may readily imagine
the lame sage,[11] wrapping himself in his spare blanket, and his ample
self-complacency, as he makes his way--unnoticed, through the insolence
and voluptuousness of imperial Rome.
--If it ever happens to thee to turn from thy path with the intent
to gratify any one, know that thou hast lost thy institute (_i.e._
forsaken thy _rule_). Let it be enough for thee, on all occasions, to
be--a philosopher. But if, indeed, thou desirest to seem a philosopher,
look to thyself, and be content with that. Let not such thoughts as
these trouble thee--I live without honours, and am no where accounted
of.... Is some one preferred to thee at table, or saluted before thee,
or consulted before thee? If these things are goods, thou oughtest
to congratulate him to whose lot they fall; if they are ills, do not
grieve because they have not befallen thee. But remember, that as thou
dost not pay attention to those things by which exterior advantages are
obtained, it cannot be that they should be given thee. For how can
he who stays at home fare the same as he who goes abroad?--or can the
same things happen to him who is obsequious, and to him who is not?--to
him who praises, and to him who praises not? Thou wilt be unjust and
greedy if, without having paid the price at which these things are
sold, thou dost expect to receive them freely. Now, what is the price
of a lettuce?--say a farthing: one therefore pays his farthing, and
takes his lettuce; but thou dost not pay, and dost not take. Think
not thyself in worse condition than he. For as he has his lettuce, so
thou hast the farthing thou didst not pay. And thus it is in other
things.--Thou hast not paid the price at which an invitation to a feast
is sold: for he who makes a feast sells invitations for flattery--for
obsequiousness. Give then the price, if thou thinkest the bargain to
thy advantage. But if thou likest not to afford the cost, and yet
wouldst receive the things, thou art at once greedy and foolish. And
hast thou then nothing instead of the feast? Yes, truly; thou hast
this, that thou didst not commend one whom thou didst not approve; nor
hast thou had to bear his insolence on entering his halls.
Many admirable sentiments are to be found in the writings of
Epictetus; though, for a portion of them, there may be reason to
believe he was indebted to Christianity, of which obligation he makes
no acknowledgment. The treatise from which this passage is derived
furnishes an example of that laborious and unsuccessful conflicting of
pride with pride, which is natural to men of superior intelligence,
who occupy an inferior condition, and are surrounded by vulgar
insolence, servility, and profligacy. There was evidently a _class_
of persons in the author’s time in circumstances like his own--that
is to say--intellectualists, who, as a defence against the scorn of
worldlings, put on a mail of steely logic.
The Enchiridion, if regarded as _a material of history_, may fairly
support the inference that, in the writer’s time, wealth and luxury
had triumphed over stern principles and severe manners;--that the
philosophical character had ceased to command general respect, as it
did at Athens in the age of Plato;--and that philosophy itself, having
passed its prime, was fast becoming palsied and querulous.
A comparison, at once curious and instructive, might be drawn between
two writers who, at first sight, may seem too unlike to be named
together--Epictetus and Thomas à Kempis. Yet quotations from the
Enchiridion and the De Imitatione, might be adduced in proof of a
real affinity. There is even a similarity in the form of the two
works; for both writers, in a style of severe and laconic simplicity,
address their pointed aphorisms--now to themselves, now to their
half-refractory disciple, much in the manner of a nurse, upbraiding
a pettish child. A _monotony_, both of _principle_ and of _topics_,
pervades both books. Both authors compel Wisdom to ascend the summit of
a snow-girt peak, where she can be neither approached, nor even heard,
by the mass of mankind. Both writers were in fact, though on widely
different principles, not only recluses from the ordinary walks of
human life, but recusants of the common emotions of our nature. And
both, by an implicit contrast, exhibit the falling condition of the
social system of their times. Yet there is this difference between the
two, that while the Stoic presents to view the darkness of paganism,
enlivened by a glimmer from Christianity, the Monk holds forth the
brightness of Christian truth, dimmed by the errors of superstition.
The moral treatises of Plutarch are of a practical, more than of a
philosophical kind, and they yield therefore abundant indications,
as well of the opinions, as of the manners of his age. In truth, the
student of history would hardly need other aid in ascertaining the
religious and moral sentiments of the times of Trajan, than he may
find in the pages of this writer. Among this author’s moral pieces
there is one that is curious, and valuable too, as a material of
history--namely, the tract on Superstition--_the dread of dæmons_.
With great force of language and aptness of illustration, he depicts
the mental torments of the man who believes the gods to be malignant,
inexorable, and capricious; and he contrasts this unhappy temper with
the comparatively harmless error of those bolder spirits who cast
away altogether the belief and fear of supernal beings; and while
he recommends “the mean of piety,” he decidedly prefers atheism to
superstition.
What say you?--The man who thinks there are no gods is impious? But is
not he who thinks them to be cruel and malignant, chargeable with an
opinion that is much more impious? For my own part, I would rather that
men should say, ‘There is no such person as Plutarch,’ than that they
should affirm that Plutarch is a man capricious, instable, prone to
wrath, revengeful of accidental affronts, pettish; one who, if you have
neglected to invite him with others to a feast, or if, being otherwise
engaged, you have failed to salute him at your gate, will devour you,
or seize and torture your son; or will send a beast, which he keeps for
the purpose, to ravage your fields.
Plutarch speaks of four states of mind, as known and existing in
his times--namely, 1. The wise piety, which he recommends, and
which forms the medium between superstition and atheism.--2. The
joyous or _festive_ worship of the gods, in which he sees nothing to
reprehend.--3. A bold rejection of all religion, which he thinks _an
error_, though an innocent error:--and 4. Superstition, which is not
merely an error, but a practical evil of the worst kind. Of the first
he says almost nothing; nor does he offer a single hint explanatory
of the mode in which the gods and goddesses of the Greek mythology
might be made the objects of a devout and reasonable piety:--and yet
piety without a god, must be an unmeaning term. Plutarch’s piety is
a vague sentiment, which he feels to be proper to human nature, and
highly beneficial; but which was absolutely destitute of solid ground,
or certainty; for no invisible being or beings were known to him whom
he could both love and fear. Even if the philosopher, by a course of
doubtful reasonings, might work out for himself an idea of the Deity,
such as might keep alive the sentiment of piety, no such abstruse
notion could be brought within the apprehension of the vulgar. What is
there then left to the vulgar?--not atheism--for that is an error:--not
superstition; for that is a tormenting mischief:--nothing remains but
the festive worship of the gods; and this, with all its impurities, and
all its follies, was the only portion that could be assigned to the
millions of mankind:--Plutarch knew of no alternative on which to found
the religious sentiments of men. Yet on another occasion he expresses
his opinion strongly as to the necessity of religion for the support of
the social system.--It seems to me that it were easier to build a city
without a foundation, than to construct or to preserve a polity, from
which all belief of the gods should be removed. Yet how great soever
were the evils of atheism, he deemed those arising from superstition
to be greater. According to his testimony, when the only theology
known to the Greeks took possession of timid minds, it rendered life
intolerably burdensome.--Of all kinds of fear, none produces such
incurable despondency and perplexity as superstition. He who never goes
on board a ship, does not fear the sea; nor he the combat, who is not a
soldier; nor he the robbers, who stays at home; nor does the poor man
fear informers, nor he who is low, the eye of envy; nor he who inhabits
Gaul, earthquakes; nor the Ethiopian, the thunderbolt. But the man who
dreads the gods, dreads all things;--the earth, the sea, the air, the
heavens, darkness, light, noise, silence, dreams. The slave in slumber
forgets his master, the captive his chain, the wounded and the diseased
their anguish:--kind sleep, friend of the sufferer, how sweet are thy
visits! But superstition admits not even this solace; it accepts no
truce, it gives no breathing time to the mind, nor permits the spirits
to rally or to dispel its harsh and grievous surmises. But like the
very region of the wicked, so the dreams of the superstitious man
abound with terrific apparitions, and fatal portents: and this passion,
always inflicting punishments upon the distracted spirit, scares the
man from sleep by visions. And he--self-tortured, believes himself
obliged to comply with fearful and monstrous behests. Such a man, when
he awakes, instead of contemning his dreams, or smiling with pleasure
in finding that what had disturbed him has no reality, still flies
before an innoxious shadow, while at the same time he is substantially
deluded by falling into the hands of conjurers and impostors, who strip
him of his money, and impose upon him various penances.
The tortures inflicted upon timid spirits by the Grecian
polytheism are depicted with not less force by the observant
Theophrastus.--Superstition is a desponding dread of divinities
(dæmons). The superstitious man, having washed his hands in the sacred
font, and being well sprinkled with holy water from the temple, takes
a leaf of laurel in his mouth, and walks about with it all the day. If
a weasel cross his path, he will not proceed until some one has gone
before him, or until he has thrown three stones across the way. If he
sees a serpent in the house, he builds a chapel on the spot. When he
passes the consecrated stones, placed where three ways meet, he is
careful to pour oil from his cruet upon them: then falling upon his
knees, he worships, and retires. A mouse, perchance, has gnawed a hole
in a flour-sack: away he goes to the seer, to know what it behoves
him to do; and if he is simply answered, ‘Send it to the cobbler
to be patched,’ he views the business in a more serious light, and
running home, he devotes the sack as an article no more to be used.
He is occupied in frequent purifications of his house; saying that
it has been invaded by Hecate. If in his walks an owl flies past, he
is horror-struck, and exclaims--Thus comes the divine Minerva. He is
careful not to tread upon a tomb, or to approach a corpse; saying that
it is profitable to him to avoid every pollution. On the fourth and
seventh days of the month, he directs mulled wine to be prepared for
his family; and going himself to purchase myrtles and frankincense,
he returns, and spends the day in crowning the statues of Mercury and
Venus. As often as he has a dream, he runs to the interpreter, the
soothsayer, or the augur, to inquire what god or goddess he ought to
propitiate. Before he is initiated in the mysteries, he attends to
receive instruction every month, accompanied by his wife, or by the
nurse and his children. Whenever he passes a cross-way, he bathes
his head. For the benefit of a special purification, he invites the
priestesses to his house, who, while he stands reverently in the midst
of them, bear about him an onion, or a little dog. If he encounters a
lunatic, or a man in a fit, he shudders horrifically, and spits in his
bosom.
The four centuries that had intervened between Theophrastus and
Plutarch, during which a philosophical atheism had spread widely among
the educated classes, had not, it appears, lessened the terrific
influence of the Grecian polytheism over melancholy minds. On the
contrary, it seems to have been enhanced rather than diminished; for
the language of Plutarch is stronger than that of Theophrastus. The
verisimilitude of both descriptions, and their accordance, leave no
room to doubt that this effect of the religious belief of the Greeks
was of frequent or ordinary occurrence among them. Indeed there is
reason to think that few persons of serious temper, even though imbued
with the spirit of the sceptical philosophy, could free themselves
from the burdensome scrupulosities and the horrific fears which attend
every form of polytheism, and from which neither the refinement, nor
the scepticism, nor the voluptuousness, nor the frivolity, nor the good
taste, nor the subtile reasonings of the Greeks, could emancipate the
devotees of their religion. The philosophic Julian might be named in
illustration of this assertion. Beside his hatred of Christianity, his
conduct was evidently influenced on many occasions by a very honest
dread of the capricious dæmons whose falling interests he so zealously
upheld: witness his magical practices.
It will be seen that passages such as those above quoted, possess a
substantial value, when brought to their place among the materials of
history. Ethical writers reflect the image of the principles and the
manners of their times. In some instances we may infer too much; in
others may mistake a partial for a general representation; but if,
with due caution, we review a wide field of ethical literature, the
_general result_ of such an induction cannot differ much from truth.
If, for example, from the entire series of Greek writers, all passages
of a purely ethical kind were to be extracted, and were arranged
in chronological order, the collection would afford the means of
ascertaining, not only the system of morals and religion that was known
to that people, but also the actual state of morals and manners, as
it varied from age to age. With such materials before us, there would
be less room for conjecture, and less danger of error, in determining
the moral condition of the people, than is found in ascertaining the
extent of their political power, or the amount of their national
wealth. Upon ethical passages, such as those we have adduced above,
one fact presents itself--namely, that in the profane authors there
is little of direct admonition or reproof, and rarely an appeal to a
recognised standard of right. The reason is obvious. The Greek and
Roman ethical writers discuss questions of morality in the tone proper
to a learned disquisition, each saying the best things in the best
manner he could:--no man was authorized to do more than propose his
opinion: no feeling of official responsibility, no high solicitude,
gave seriousness or force to his manner. Morals were not founded
upon religion: on the contrary, an ethical treatise, containing the
expression of reason and conscience, was at once a virtual refutation
of the national theology, and a sarcasm upon the gods. Especially
it is to be observed, that the instruction and reformation of the
mass of mankind entered not into the contemplation of moralists
and philosophers, who, while they amused one another with eloquent
disquisitions, were not troubled by the thought that the millions of
their fellow-men remained, from age to age, untaught in wisdom and
virtue.
Not so was it with the people of Palestine. Not philosophy, but
morality, was paramount; and morality was taught in its dependence upon
religion. And it was not to a small class in the community, but to the
people at large, that ethical writings were addressed:--and it was
not for amusement, but for reproof, that they were so addressed:--and
these writers, instead of propounding their individual opinions, and
supporting those opinions by abstract reasonings, took the short course
of appealing to a known standard of right and wrong. They speak to
their fellow-men as from on high, and in the tone of authority; and
each acquits himself, with gravity, of a weighty responsibility. From
the writers of Palestine the modern Western nations have learned the
style of instruction, admonition, and reproof, and this can have its
origin, and derive its force, and maintain its influence, only from a
Divine Revelation, entrusted to the administration of human agents.
But our present object leads us to remark that, whether or not this
peculiarity of the Jewish and Christian writings be attributed to their
Divine origination, it renders them far more available as historical
documents, than are the writings of other ancient nations. For
inasmuch as these compositions unite the several qualities of being
_authoritative_, _hortative_, and _popular_, they leave nothing to be
wished for in ascertaining, either the moral level of the writer’s
mind, or the actual level of manners in his times. It is evident
that an appeal to a fixed standard, and an admonitory application of
its known rules to the existing practices of the people, completes
the requisite _data_ of the historical problem above-mentioned. In
the standard we have a known quantity; and in the hortatory forms of
address, we have a mean of measurement, by which the actual state of
morals may be ascertained.
An inquiry of this kind, if pursued in its details, would prove the
existence and operation of an ethical system, so pure and perfect,
that all after nations to whom it has been made known, have found
nothing left to them but to admire and adopt its principles. What
can the modern moralist do but work up the materials which he finds
ready to his hand in the New Testament? To devise a new theology, or
to invent a new morality--which should recommend itself to the common
sense of mankind, would be as impracticable as to propose a new set
of mathematical axioms. Truth is single and simple; and when once
discovered, it must be adopted and followed. As a matter of history, it
appears that the writers of ancient Palestine have taken possession of
the regions of religion and morality.
But it would be practicable to ascertain, not only the system of morals
taught by the Jewish and Christian writers; but the actual state
of morals among those whom they immediately addressed. The Hebrew
prophets furnish ample means for pursuing such an inquiry; but the
unstudied earnestness of the Apostles, and especially the epistolary
form of their compositions, would render the task of the inquirer easy,
and conclusive in its results. In an argument of this kind we should
not be entitled to conclude that the persons addressed were blameless
in their lives--because their teachers address them as “Saints”--a
conventional term. Our inferences must be of a less ambiguous kind. We
must assume nothing but what is necessary to give consistency to the
writer’s assertions:--in other words, we are to assume just as much as
is found to be safe and reasonable in the interpretation of any ancient
author.
In the Epistles to the Galatians and the Corinthians, we find proof
that Paul was not the man to spare the faults or errors of those to
whom he wrote; and each of his letters affords some evidence as well of
his quick-sightedness, as of his sincerity. Men will more easily bear
to be charged with vices, or with evil tempers, than to be reproached
for dulness of apprehension: but in an Epistle addressed, as it seems,
to the better-informed class of his own nation, he does not hesitate to
blame their inaptitude and non-proficiency. (Heb. v. 11, 14.) Instances
of a similar kind are the characteristics of the writer’s manner.
If a father in writing to a son addresses him in the language of
approving affection; and if his admonitions relate only to the graces
of an amiable deportment and temper, it is fair to conclude that the
character of the son is unstained by grievous vices; for such a letter
would not be addressed by a wise parent to a son who was “wasting his
substance in riotous living.” This inference would be confirmed, if
we found the same father writing to another son in terms of mingled
affection, remonstrance, and severe reproof; and that he urged upon
him, with pungent persuasions, the virtues of justice and temperance.
Now it is an inference of this kind that we are entitled to draw
from Paul’s Epistles. In some of them he discharges the painful duty
of administering stern reproof on points of common morality; and in
these instances he carries the requirements of virtue as far as can
be imagined possible; and he enforces his injunctions by the most
awful sanctions. Such is the writer, and such is his system of morals.
But the same moralist, in addressing other societies, writes in the
style of a happy father to an exemplary son. The Epistles to the
Philippians, the Thessalonians, and the Ephesians are of this kind; and
the inference is this--that these societies were in a state not far
below the writer’s own standard of morals. In every society there will
be a diversity of character, and in every numerous society there will
be those to whom a wise teacher will address strongly-worded cautions,
on the prime articles of morality. So it is in these Epistles; and the
passages are vouchers for the writer’s consistency and faithfulness.
These more serious admonitions are, however, manifestly addressed to _a
minority_, or to an individual; or they are directed to persons who are
not within the pale of the society.
A passage so often quoted (Phil. iv. 8) might be compared to the last
sedulous touches of an accomplished artist, who having completed an
excellent piece of work, reluctantly withdraws his hand while it seems
yet possible to add a higher lustre to its polish. Passages like these,
from such a writer, whose discrimination and whose sincerity are
proved, afford the best kind of evidence in attestation of purity of
manners among the Christians of Philippi.
Other of the Epistles of Paul, as well as those of James, Peter, and
John, furnish instances to the same effect. The result of bringing
them forward would be proof irrefragable, that the teaching of the
apostles had produced a high degree of conformity to that new and
refined standard of morals which they promulgated:--it would show that,
in many cities of the Roman world, where, formerly, nothing had been
seen but shameless dissoluteness, and abominable idolatries; or, at
the best, Jewish sanctimoniousness, or philosophical pride, societies
were formed, which had been collected chiefly from the humbler classes,
and in which the full loveliness of virtue was suddenly generated and
expanded, and produced its fruits. Not only were the gods expelled by
the new doctrine, but the vices also.
Facts and inferences of this kind have often been brought forward by
writers who have taken up the Christian argument: we in this place are
not taking up that argument as if it were our subject and purpose in
this volume. The facts above briefly referred to, and the inferences
that are thence derivable, fairly challenge for themselves a place
as belonging to a summary of the method or process of historical
proof. For if we affirm that various passages occurring in the
ethical writings of Aristotle, and of Cicero, and of Epictetus,
and of Theophrastus, and of Plutarch, are highly significant, as
materials of history, it must be proper also to show that the apostolic
Epistles--ethical as they are--come within the same range, and should
be duly regarded as authentic evidences, touching the moral condition
of the community within which they were circulated, and involving
therefore the truth and the excellence of the religion which then
spread itself throughout the Roman world.
FOOTNOTES:
[11]
Servus Epictetus sum natus; _corpore claudus_.
Irus pauperie, deliciæ Superum.